Devotion

by Adam Makos

  That’s Bill Morin! Red realized. Morin was from upstate New York, like Red. He was a party Marine who loved scotch and looked like Dean Martin. Everybody loved him.

  Higher on the hill, a mortar squad crouched behind boulders. “Take cover!” they shouted at Morin. “Get down, you idiot!” Morin dived behind a clump of small trees. Bullets snapped the branches overhead and kicked up the soil around him.

  With a roar, the tank belched black smoke and wheeled in place to face the pasture where Morin was cowering. The enemy machine gunner now had a straight shot. Gunfire burst from the machine gun’s muzzle toward the trapped Marine.

  You can save him! Red thought.

  Red hoisted the Super Bazooka onto his shoulder. “Load me up!” he shouted to Charlie over the tank’s gunfire. Charlie grabbed a rocket from his pack and shimmied up to Red.

  Red fixed his eyes on the tank. It was broadside, an ideal target profile. Large scratches marred its green hide where bullets had skidded across it in the past. White Soviet-style numbers lined the turret. Dust and grease matted the wheels between the tracks.

  Stay put! Red thought.

  Charlie slid the eight-pound rocket into the rear of the bazooka tube and connected an electrical wire to the rocket. He smacked Red on the shoulder to tell him he was armed and dived out of the way, expecting Red to fire from the ditch.

  But with Morin’s life on the line, Red had no intention of shooting from cover and maybe missing. He leapt to his feet and scrambled up onto the road. In one motion he slid to a knee, lifted the bazooka, and braced the tube on his right shoulder. Red leaned his face rightward and peered through the circular gunsight.

  Red clenched his breath and swung the crosshairs onto the machine’s rear quarter, over an auxiliary fuel drum that had been strapped to the tank’s side. Behind the drum stood nearly two inches of armor that shielded the machine’s fuel tank and engine. Red’s bazooka could punch through eleven inches if need be.

  Now!

  Red squeezed the trigger. A coil behind the trigger produced a spark that raced up the grip and into the rocket. The rocket’s propellant ignited with a whoosh, and the projectile shot from the bazooka’s mouth in a flaming bolt of orange.

  Crack!

  The shell punched into the T-34 and the twenty-six-ton beast shuddered on its tracks. A split second passed.

  KABOOM!

  The tank’s hatches burst open and a shock wave blasted Red onto his back. The fuel vapor had exploded in the vehicle’s fuel tank with the power of an artillery shell. Black smoke streamed from the hatches and flames boiled over the engine compartment.

  From his backside, Red saw the North Korean tank commander writhe out of the turret, his quilted blue uniform and padded helmet engulfed in flame. The tanker fell to the ground and burned. None of the other crewmen emerged.

  The gunfire in the pastures trailed away as flames engulfed the tank. A blowtorch-like sound rose from the hulk and the turret’s white numbers became charred.*

  Still in the road, Red set his bazooka down and took in the sight. Behind him, his buddies began cheering and whistling.

  Did Morin make it? Red wondered. He glanced to the clump of trees on the hillside. Morin stood and dusted himself off. He stared at the tank then over to Red. “What the hell took you so long?” he shouted. A grin stretched across Red’s dusty face. Morin waved and gathered up his gear.

  Charlie approached and shook Red by the shoulder. “Hallelujah!” Charlie yelled as he watched the tank burn. “Hallelujah!” He turned to Red and pointed a finger at his friend’s heart. “Be right with the Lord and he will protect you!”

  Red smirked and placed a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “Shucks, Charlie. I thought an eight-pound rocket was protectin’ me.”

  Charlie shook his finger. “Steered by the Lord!”

  Red laughed.

  Devans approached the duo, pleased as could be. Between glances at the tank, the men debated why the lone tank crew had made a suicide attack. They concluded that the tank commander was saving his cannon shells for any American tanks while trusting his machine gunner to handle the infantry.

  A fresh column of Marines marched past Red and his friends. The advance had resumed, thanks to the enemy tank: The road was obviously clear of mines if the tank had safely traveled it. “Atta boy!” a Marine said, slapping Red on the back. “Nice shot!” said another. An officer paused to say that he would recommend Red for a medal. The men steered around the burning tank and marched with fresh vigor.

  Devans returned to his duties and Charlie went to retrieve his friend’s gear. Red remained in the road, his gaze settled on the dead North Korean tank commander, whose body had shrunk into the dirt.

  Red had aimed at a machine, but he had killed maybe five men in the process. After a long pause, Red shook off any lament for what he had done.

  Better them than Morin.

  “You okay?” Charlie asked. He held out his friend’s pack and carbine, waiting up so they could advance together.

  Red nodded as he shouldered his gear. He was more than okay. He had stood against a tank and lived to tell the story.

  Red’s eyebrows lifted as a thought crossed his mind.

  Maybe Charlie’s on to something with that “being right with the Lord” stuff? Red picked up his Super Bazooka and slung it over his shoulder.

  Nah, he decided. That surely ain’t it.

  * * *

  * The North Koreans acquired 150 T-34s in 1948 as gifts when the Soviets withdrew their forces after occupying North Korea since WWII. A year later, Stalin provided the North Koreans with 40 million dollars’ worth of credit to purchase Soviet artillery, tanks, and firearms to use to attack South Korea.

  CHAPTER 23

  INTO THE FOG

  Two days later, October 3, 1950

  Near Tokyo Bay, Japan

  FOG FLOATED FROM THE FORESTED HILLS of Yokosuka Harbor and blanketed the Leyte at anchor. For mid-afternoon, the harbor seemed asleep. Lights glowed dimly from the docks and empty mooring posts jutted from the waves.

  The misty ceiling hung level with the Leyte’s tower and obscured any glimpse of distant Mount Fuji. Despite the conditions, at the front of the carrier’s deck, crewmen uncovered the blades of six blue helicopters in preparation for flight.

  —

  Below deck, Tom passed through the officers’ dining room with his dress coat draped over an arm. Located near the front of the ship, the dining room maintained a gentlemanly aura, with its carved wood ceiling and white tablecloths. Between meals, a few officers sipped coffee. They were likely debating the topic of the times: Should the U.S. commander, General MacArthur, allow U.S. and U.N. forces to follow the North Korean army across the 38th parallel and crush them once and for all? Most Americans were unaware, however, that Soviet and Chinese diplomats had just issued a warning—if U.S. forces did cross the 38th parallel, China planned to attack. In fact, two days earlier, the Chinese had publicly declared: “The United States Government, because of its frenzied and ruthless imperialistic aggression, has been proved the most dangerous enemy of the People’s Republic of China.”

  At the end of the room, Tom encountered a green canvas curtain that hung from the ceiling and segmented off a quarter of the dining room. He searched for the opening in its folds. Behind the fabric, the telltale sounds of revelry could be heard.

  Tom parted the curtain and stepped inside. Cigarette smoke stung his nostrils. More than twenty pilots crowded the small space. At a table, Jesse and Cevoli were playing backgammon, as usual. Another pilot kept the record player spinning, while others passed a coffeepot around to refill their mugs. Maps spanned a wall and a teletype machine’s green TV screen flickered with the weather and shipboard announcements. Everyone kept an ear tuned for the announcement that they could go ashore.

  This was “ready room forward,” ’32’s new hangout. Before leaving the States, the Leyte had taken on extra pilots, so the squadrons’ ready rooms had to be reassigned.
In an unlucky twist, ’32 had drawn this space and been made to swap their leather seats for hardback chairs and their theater-style lounge for a space similar to a catering station at a banquet.

  Tom slid into a seat next to Cevoli and Jesse. In a nearby corner, six pilots were tossing on jackets and life preservers in preparation to fly. They were older, saltier-looking men who wore green infantry fatigues beneath their leather jackets. Revolvers dangled from their hips and brown paratrooper boots wrapped their ankles. They were some of the Marine Corps’ first helicopter pilots, men trained to fly the Sikorsky HO3S, used for rescuing downed airmen.

  Credit 23.1

  An HO3S departs the Leyte

  The chopper pilots remained tight-lipped as they suited up. They and the fighter pilots had shared the ready room since Norfolk, yet they seldom intermingled. The younger fighter pilots were the problem. They assumed that any man stuck flying a flimsy “eggbeater,” as they called helicopters, had to be a flight school dropout. Sensing the disdain, the chopper pilots generally ignored the fighter pilots.

  Now, in their last time together, the two groups maintained their sullen distance—all except for two pilots. Between tosses of dice, Jesse exchanged quips with First Lieutenant Charlie Ward, a stocky chopper pilot whose thick red cheeks squeezed his grin tight. Ward was a former wholesale chemical salesman from Troy, Alabama, and his hair was already graying at age thirty-two.

  “Heya, Mississippi, do you remember…” Charlie would say, then ramble something in a drawl so thick the others would wrinkle their noses.

  Credit 23.2

  Charlie Ward (far right) and some of the first Marine helicopter pilots. Aircraft designer Igor Sikorsky is seated (lower left) beside Marine General O. P. Smith.

  But Jesse would understand every word. “You said it, Alabama,” he would reply.

  The two had met during the journey over, when Ward was briefing the fighter pilots about helicopter rescue capabilities, even admitting that his craft had difficulty operating in the thin air over five thousand feet. “If you gotta crash, do it at sea level,” Ward had said. “If you crash in the mountains, I ain’t coming for you!” The room had erupted in laughter.

  Afterward, Jesse and Ward had struck up a friendship whereby Jesse discovered that Ward and another chopper pilot had actually flown Corsairs during WWII. Now Ward was about to enter his second war. After a hop across the bay to Kisarazu Air Base, he and the other chopper pilots would join Observation Squadron 6 (VMO-6), their unit in Korea.

  “Have you fellas popped a head outside?” Tom asked the chopper pilots. “You can stir the soup out there, the fog’s so thick.”

  Several of the men stopped dressing and turned toward Tom. Their thoughts were written on their faces. Another fighter jock trying to teach us how to fly? Only when they saw the genuine concern on Tom’s face did they relax.

  “Nah, that won’t stop us,” a chopper pilot said. “We’ll just go under it.” His buddies nodded.

  Cevoli shook his head in amazement. More than one fighter pilot raised an eyebrow.

  “I’ll admit, I don’t know the meaning of the word fear,” Charlie Ward said, thumping his chest. “Not because I’m brave,” Ward continued, “but because I jus’ don’t understand big words!”

  Everyone broke out in laughter.

  Ward was his unit’s go-to man for comic relief. At parties he’d strum a ukulele and sing profane Irish ditties. But beneath the bravado, he had misgivings about the primitive machine he was tasked to fly. Ward was married with children and had already crashed one helicopter. He knew that his new mount was underpowered and almost too flimsy to fly on a windy day—let alone if someone was shooting at him.

  One by one, chopper pilots filtered from the ready room.

  “Hey—take it easy, Mississippi!” Ward said, slapping Jesse on the shoulder.

  “Be safe, Alabama,” Jesse replied.

  Tom shook his head in disbelief. The chopper pilots were really going to try to take off.

  “See ya later, fellas!” Ward said over his shoulder as he brushed through the curtain.

  I sure hope not, Tom thought.

  He had nothing against Charlie Ward—he just hoped that he would never need the man’s services. If Tom had gone on deck to watch the helicopters fly away between the fog and waves, he’d have seen that Ward was wrong about himself: He was brave, even borderline crazy.

  And one day those traits would matter. They would meet again, Tom Hudner and Charlie Ward, in a place where only a crazy man would go.

  CHAPTER 24

  THIS IS IT

  Several nights later, early October 1950

  The Sea of Japan

  WITH EVERY LIGHT EXTINGUISHED, the Leyte steamed through the darkness. A sliver of moon hung in the sky, casting barely enough light to trace the ship’s deck. Ever since Japan, the Leyte’s crew had run her all blacked out in order to hide from enemy submarines. The North Koreans didn’t have subs, but the Soviets did, and sometimes they trailed American fleets.

  On either side of the Leyte, the outlines of countless ships could be seen, each vessel holding its course to avoid collision. The Leyte now belonged to the 7th Fleet, one of the largest flotillas assembled since WWII.

  Together, the ships steamed toward the hostile waters of North Korea.

  —

  Below deck, in a cabin near the front of the Leyte, Jesse and Koenig examined their new flight helmets. Koenig sat on the lower bunk, his face full of wonder as he turned the white helmet in his hands. A map of the Pacific lined the wall behind him. Jesse sat at a desk and gazed at his helmet with a forlorn expression.

  He knocked the helmet’s shell with his knuckles and frowned at the hollow clunking sound. The helmets were made of plastic and black padding lined the edges. Gone were the old cloth helmets—this was a helmet that Buck Rogers might have worn in space.

  Jesse glanced over at Koenig. “Remember Carol’s crash report?” he said. Koenig nodded somberly. Jesse glanced back at the helmet and added, “Crying shame.”

  Investigators had determined that Carol might have survived his crash if he had been wearing one of the new helmets. At the time, however, hard helmets had only been issued to jet pilots, so the investigators’ report urged the navy to issue the new helmets to all pilots as quickly as possible.

  Jesse stepped to the stainless steel sink beside the door and peered into the mirror. He snugged his helmet down over his head, adjusted the black goggles over his forehead, and fastened the chinstrap under his jaw. Koenig eyed his friend with curiosity. Jesse had moved into his cabin for the Korean cruise to make room in Boys’ Town for the new pilots.

  Jesse’s eyes narrowed to slits like a western gunslinger’s. He grimaced sternly and bit his lower lip. The ceiling light shone from behind, casting his face in menacing shadows. Slowly Jesse’s eyes lifted and his cheeks loosened. He broke into a wide smile and shook his head at his reflection. “All I see is a white helmet, white teeth, and eyeballs showing through!”

  Koenig broke out in laughter, and Jesse did too.

  Several days later, October 10, 1950

  Tom and Cevoli peered from Vulture’s Row as dawn stretched over the Leyte’s deck. Below, propellers whirled from sixteen Corsairs as the pilots warmed their engines. The sun danced golden on a sea so blue that Tom could have sworn that the Leyte was off the coast of California. It was around 6:30 A.M. as the carrier steamed northward.

  On the horizon, the carrier Philippine Sea cruised alongside the Leyte. A cruiser and destroyers flanked the flattops. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay North Korea’s eastern coastline. The fleet was one hundred miles above the 38th parallel, deep in enemy waters.

  The planes crowded the rear of the Leyte’s deck to keep the front clear as a runway. With wings folded, the Corsairs of ’32 and her sister squadron, ’33, sat side by side in a gaggle that pilots called “the pack.” Gray rockets hung from each plane’s wings and deckhands crouched by the tires, waiting for the s
ignal to pull the chocks and free the planes for takeoff.

  Earlier that week, the forces of democracy had crossed the 38th parallel to pursue the North Koreans and the Chinese had remained on the sidelines, despite their saber rattling. Now, within striking range of North Korea, the Leyte was about to enter the war.*1

  It was a brisk sixty degrees atop Vulture’s Row so Tom wore his jacket’s black fur collar flipped up and his tan tent cap snugged tight. He could see the skipper at the front of the pack and Dad nearby. Jesse and Koenig waited in the second row of Corsairs. Tom couldn’t see Jesse behind his plane’s folded wings, but he knew his friend was probably praying. The first time the deckhands had seen Jesse’s head bowed in the cockpit, one had climbed onto the wing, believing something to be wrong. Now they knew better.

  Only eight of the squadron’s pilots were flying, men whose turn had come in the rotation.

  “You’ll never forget this moment, Tom,” Cevoli said, gazing at the planes as if envisioning himself as a young Hellcat pilot in 1944.

  “The engines throbbing, your heart pounding,” Cevoli continued. “You’ll never forget seeing your buddies fly away while you’re stuck here, left behind, waving goodbye.” Cevoli broke into a sly grin. Tom chuckled. He wasn’t bitter about missing the first combat mission because he had plenty of other work to do. The squadron had been issued some new Corsairs in Norfolk and Tom needed to start over with their maintenance logs.

  From the second row of the pack, a pilot waved at Vulture’s Row and pointed straight at Tom. Tom and Cevoli squinted. “It’s Wilkie,” Tom said. Wilkie was one of the new ensigns the squadron had picked up in Norfolk. Curious, Tom aimed a finger at himself. Me? Wilkie nodded and beckoned for Tom to come to him. Tom’s face filled with confusion. If Wilkie had a mechanical problem, there were mechanics already on the side of the deck. But the young pilot kept beckoning.